


Those With Forgotten Names

by heartstone



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Enchanted Forest, Alternate Universe - Fae, I lied when I said I'd stop doing forest settings, Legends, M/M, Mairon makes artifacts for the Church of The One, Melkor is the Fae-King, Romance, Somewhere in Scandinavia, Takes Place in Our World
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2019-04-29 19:12:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14479311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartstone/pseuds/heartstone
Summary: They say the forest eats people, for those who enter its boundaries are never again seen.But those who say such things are mistaken, for it is not the forest that takes them.***There is only one who knows the name of the Fae-King, and only one who does not fear him.





	Those With Forgotten Names

They say the forest eats people, for those who enter its boundaries are never again seen.

But those who say such things are mistaken, for it is not the forest that takes them.

From the relative safety of the village- from the hundreds of quaint wooden houses with pointed roofs covered in turf and that singular, massive stone church that pierced the empyrean- there was no need to stray very far. But looking on at the sullen and black-hemmed border of the forest, to all the townsfolk it seemed there was something incredibly ancient and tragic, something _intelligent_ about the eaves of spruce and alder that stood as silent sentinels.

As if, from their many straining limbs, a thousand eyes were peering out of the eclipsed greenery, unable to pass from under its otherworldly protection.

Nevertheless, there were houses that crowded at the shoreline within the inlet of deep blue sea, and more houses climbed up the sides of of the flat-backed fjord and perched on the top of the massifs as if from an eyrie. Tamed pastures surrounded the village, as much for planting crops and feeding cattle as it was to provide a buffer, some well-needed distance between civilization and the brooding wall of dense woodland. Many trodden paths and carved stairs led from shore to cliff-top, but no paths were ever carved through the hanging ivy, the lacy fern, and thick bark- not even in ages past.

From their view high above the valleys farther inland, where there the forest lay like a sprawling virescent sea, could be seen many queer things.

On a clear day, when the sun had risen to its zenith in the sky and if one were to stand at the top of the highest mountain in the village, Taniquetil, one could see for many leagues over the ancient forest. All in sight would be a blear of grey-green olive and a slightly more intense jade. At first, there would be no indication of anything extraordinary within. But a second glance would reveal twinkling lights beneath the thickened canopy- but was that not just the midday sun playing on the glossy, waving leaves? A third glance, far in the distance, could be discerned the spire of some ruined palace- but perhaps there _had_ been those who ventured into the forest, or perhaps it was a trick of the wind, or perhaps it was some distant village on the far boundary.

But then, there were the fairy circles- perfectly rounded patches not far from the edge of the forest where- from the vantage of the villagers- only barren land lay within. _‘The fairies made them, as their gathering places,’_ that’s what the elders would say despite the hold of the Church on the people’s hearts. But nothing could quell these pagan beliefs, not even the consolation of The One: for it was known to all what were to happen if one were to stray inside. . .

Even Eönwë, the current sharp-eyed High Priest of The One, could tell you that there was something twisted lurking among the shadows. And were you to ask him, he would tell you its legend in a whisper after making the sign of the cross.

Long ago, it is said, when the Church of The One had just been established amongst the ætt, there was a gifted craftsman who had come to serve the first High Priest, Mânawenûz, and he was named Aulë. To Aulë was born an even more gifted son, such as he was blessed by Eru. And Aulë’s son made all manner of glory for the Church when he was naught but twenty; golden reliquaries and many-jeweled covers for illuminated manuscripts, stained glass scenes depicting the Ainulindalë, and stone-carven crosses. Nothing, it seemed, he could not make: such was his skill.

Yet, despite all his achievements and fame, it is said he was infected with a great evil, and that in secret he shunned the light of The One and turned towards the darkness of the forest, where there he came to worship one of the old gods- a savage god, primitive, and delighting in sin. The Fae-King who, depending on his temper, would help or harm those who stumbled into the wood.

It is said that one night Aulë’s son was caught walking over the pastures like a wraith, down the rocky slopes and into the valley where his crimson hair caught in the light of the moon but for a moment, then disappeared under the black rim of the forest. It is said that in all history only he ever returned from those cursèd lands, that he came back changed. He had met the devil in that forest, and some say that he had traded his very soul for his talent, and had visited its depths often.

All of his works had to be cleansed, for they were founded in sin. His golden reliquaries, the many-jeweled covers of illuminated manuscripts, the stained glass scenes depicting the Ainulindalë, his stone-carven crosses- all of it. And Eru cleanses only with fire, only with the Flame of Anor. Looking on at the village purifying his works of the Discord in a great bonfire, it is said that Aulë’s son appeared to them as a fire of his own- hellfire that burned bright within his eyes and did not quench, and that, in his hatred for the destruction of his works which had made the town rich, he blasphemed the Church and ran off to the forest, and never was he seen to them again.

And so the woods stood, ancient and eternal, and in its airs held a magik long forgotten by humans, and long feared by all.

By all but one.

He ran, he ran and he did not look back. The forest greeted him eagerly, absorbed him almost, into its all-embracing elysian shelter. The scots pine with its young scarlet strobilus quivered as he passed underfoot, the downy birch with its trailing aments waved in the twilight breeze. The dense tangle of willow underbrush, normally so toilsome to walk through, seemed to part for him in welcoming, and for a while he just ran, a spot of racing crimson under the ebony shadows.

He knew the path, for he had re-traced it many times, and the forest had become familiar to him. It had become home. For a while, there was only violet-berried dwarf juniper and the glistening absinthe of various pine species and norway spruce. A dewy mist beaded the tips of the tree-needles and veiled all the land in a silver haze, and it seemed to glow ethereal under the arcane light of the moon. The forest grew heavier, still and silent with the approaching nighttime. The trill of a lonely songbird died off on its last, strung-out note, muffled as if far away.

To any other outsider, the stillness would become oppressive, like an invisible hand tightening around the neck, instilling panic. The looming trees would seem to reach out to grasp onto clothing or onto hair, and they would seem to crowd around claustrophobically. But Aulë’s son did not feel such a thing, and the glints of eerie amber light that appeared in pairs close to the ground did not phase him- the wolves were always curious about him, and they would not harm him. He pressed onward.

The mist grew thicker, but he needed only to wait for the forest to lead him. The moon’s light beamed downward, and shimmered the roiling fog that condensed and made little streams form along the runnels in the bark of the trees. He paused; he was getting close. A roll of thunder sounded overhead, not in the sky but from the canopy, and he broke out into a smile, catching sight of a mountain birch with a trailing white ribbon tied around its trunk- his first landmark.

The sun fell below the horizon, its golden rays smothered by the earth’s curve. Now the lights would appear, twinkling at first, but then growing audacious enough to form right before his eyes; a small spark of amethyst light from within the mists, jagged as a fracture in the earth, that which would crackle and collapse onto itself with the fragrance of ozone, making a small sphere of brilliant light. He smiled, watching them dart through or around the trees, insubstantial. But he knew better than to touch them and took their guidance with grace.

One- a large and deep purple orb the colour of the Church robes imported from Phoenicia- glided smoothly through the trees with whipping tendrils of static. It breached an interwoven copse of aspens, trembled with delight, and disappeared from existence. Aulë’s son sighed with content- he stood within the second landmark, a fairy circle.

Up close, the circles were much different from the brown and barren spots seen from Taniquetil. He looked back towards the village he had fled from, and from the top of the fjord, could still be seen the light of the massive bonfire held in the courtyard of the Church of The One. The bonfire in which, without a second thought, they had destroyed all of his labours and condemned him in the same breath. Tears pricked his eyes to see the glimmer of red on the mountain-top, but his heart lightened, for their condemnation had finally freed him: severed the last thread of his frayed ties to the village and its people.

The moon shone, full and proud among the mists and stars that glimmered in the gaping, newly-darkened night sky. It illuminated the fairy circle and sent a harsh contrast along the tall wildflowers. Here the heather and gorse thrived and long grasses tufted the softening ground. He trailed among them, the forget-me-nots and the frilly angelica, the pale saxifrage and the hare’s-foot sedge washed out and pallid in the moonlight.

Straight ahead of him was a looming boulder, and around him, at the edges of the circle, were many smaller ones- but all of them much too large to have been placed there by any natural means. On this large one’s great weathered facet cleared of spleenwort were many carvings coloured with ochre: prehistoric stick figures. There were erect men fighting a battle on two-dimensional longships, figures of men and women making love, figures of women with labyrinthine wombs, and the figure of a long, winding primordial snake.

He traced his hand over the petroglyphs lovingly, remembering colouring their pictures in to better see their stories- remembered who he had coloured them with. He passed again under the branches of the woods.

Now he was in the further reaches of the forest, where the shapes from Taniquetil became indistinct. Now there were rowan trees with their pinnate leaves and budding white florets, and there was bird cherry and grey alder, fighting to keep from the shade of the pines. Here the forest was less dense, and the wildflowers continued to grow from the fairy circle to the shelter under the trees. The sunny yellow lousewort and funnel-shaped alpine hawkweed grew with the slim-leaved sandwort and mossy cassiope, their flowers nodding in the melting snow. He was nearly there, and he followed the trailing wolfsbane and sweeping milk-vetch.

Suddenly, from the roots of an old birch there came his third and final landmark; an stone path, long-overgrown with clusters of pink-blooming trailing azalea, with alpine sow-thistle in the palest of orchid, and cushioned by moss campion. This trail led deeper, and a howling of wolves could be heard in its direction, and Aulë’s son knew he was safe, and he knew that he now was expected.

He followed the stones, counting them as he went out of habit. Sometimes the path would end and it would be a little while before he found it again. But he was guided by the flora that outlined the path even in the absence of the stones, until at last, from the tops of the trees there rose in splendor the spire of a great but decaying palace, one that had not the look of human make.

It was delicate, almost, with its many pointed arches and thinned-paned glass turned violet-tinted with age. Its traceries were quatrefoil, its columns and flying buttresses covered in slow-creeping ivy, its pinnacles crowned with rockcress and diapensia. But its beauty was deceptive, for it had endured ages and ages of weathering, and still stood, proud and yet aloof.

Its walls were thick and cold, but within them held the heat of the day. Nests of birds filled the crevices, feeling safe among the palace’s enchantment. Within its large façade were set oak doors in a rain-washed tympanum, and the entranceway had been damaged by a seige long ago- its doors were crooked on their hinges, as if from being busted open and the ribbed vault had collapsed, its warped wooden beams with their broken remnants of chandeliers caught the light of the moon and glimmered against the sky. The floors of patterned marble were strewn with decaying leaves and the blanched bones of smaller creatures. Yet, from these beams were bundles of dried herbs and small golden coins, bones and clay beads that chimed in the gentle wind.

Excitement rose within him, and the village with its bonfire was now a distant heartache. The palace called to him, as if he had lived and died there in some other lifetime. His morrow ached with longing, ached for the faded paintings of obscured portraits, the shattered, patina-coated mirrors, and the threadbare curtains.

He ached for the one that still walked the corridors of this forsaken palace.

Foxes darted among the rooms and he followed them, and both the foxes and the smith’s son looked no more than a blurring of blood-red in all the grey. Rooms with rotting, mildewed doors lined the back, but further into the palace the roof was still intact and the wood was no longer fetid and warped, and still it was lined with rugs from ancient Persia. Candles lined the stone walls, dripping wax onto the floors as they burned low, and their light danced on the coloured glass and ragged tapestries.

He smiled, opening the door to the tower. He was home.

No one knew his name, who it was that had claimed Aulë’s son’s soul. Even Eönwë- who was the distant grandson of Mânawenûz- did not know the name of that daemon, or even the smith’s son’s name, for it was not spoken after that day he disappeared into the forest for good. But his evil could be seen atimes, wondering at the border of spruce and alder at twilight, during the blurring reality of the spirit world and the mortals domain.

_He was not human; he was the Fae-King, an agent of Discord._

Do not look where the shadows collect, where they darken too vividly: for there he can be seen. Tall and broad-shouldered, but agile and sleek as a panther he would dart under the trees, their branches yielding to him as he glided along the underbrush. Shadows were his cloak and cold steel was in his glance, and nothing but his terrible face and terrible claws could be seen: the paleness of his flesh, devoid of all blood like a drained corpse, near-transparent, a gory smear of browning red across one cheek. Horns he also had, like the foreign hartbeast adorned with gold, and in his hair, thousands of glimmering gems like stars cocooned in the blackness of a starless, moonless night.

And yet, behind him came a capering light as if from hellfire, and the forlorn sound of a wolf, and some would say that they saw another figure, one that would caress the King and call him back to the depths, and there would be a shock of red hair and the blazing inferno of impassioned eyes, and they both would vanish, insubstantial. That, they would say, is the old smith’s son.

And there were many things that no one could ever know.

From the windows of the spire on the ancient palace, the two kindred lived, and there they slept and whispered in their hushed and forgotten language their forgotten names. And the smith’s son would embrace the daemon like the figures of the petroglyphs, and the Fae-King would kiss him with all his wild passion until their need grew too much and they would consummate just like the figures of the petroglyphs, free and unburdened and utterly in love.

But even as they lay together on furs and fading silks- even as the seasons went by and the years passed and passed and passed without a care for the pair, everlasting- even as the legend of Aulë’s son was no longer told, the forest sat as ever it did before, untouched.

And the whispers of the Fae-King and his consort never left the lips of the humans that lived nearby.

 

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a culmination of several ideas I have had, most of which you cannot even tell in the final product: like the persephone myth or beauty and the beast. But I'm happy with the outcome- this is the first time I've written an alternate universe!  
> I'd also be lying if I said I wasn't inspired by ceruleanshark's fanfiction "Saints of Another Kind," so please check their story out, it's wonderful so far! I really wanted to make sure my work was distinct and quite different from theirs, however, despite being inspired by it.  
> The rock-carvings were inspired by the ones in Tanum, Sweden. Check them out, they are very charming and oddly expressive for being so simplified!  
> I've been quite busy with finals, but I should be able to publish more in the summer!  
> ***


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